


Of Bloodstained Lips & Chokeholds

by ineedtokeepdrinking



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blood, Choking, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 12:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12109065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineedtokeepdrinking/pseuds/ineedtokeepdrinking
Summary: Set somewhere in season 3.Vaguely AU, because Rachel is neither blind nor wheelchair bound.





	Of Bloodstained Lips & Chokeholds

She tells herself it is an accident, that she didn’t mean for it to happen.

They both know it is a lie.

She maintains that she doesn’t notice at first, doesn’t see the way Rachel’s gaze sometimes lingers just a moment too long on her neck. She tells herself that she has never noticed the way her name comes out from between Rachel’s lips like it’s almost a laugh, like Rachel would kiss it if she could.

She swears that she did not pick up on any of it, not until Rachel walks into her office at 10:46pm and approaches her with something in her eyes that Delphine cannot quite place. They do not greet each other: Rachel simply enters, knowing that Delphine will allow it without question. After all, the office is truly only Delphine’s in name. Despite the cleanly carved nameplate on her desk, the position as director is barely hers—some days Delphine clutches at it with her fingertips, desperate and terrified, determined to find answers. Other days, she ignores it, pushes it away, hoping that if she can ignore the person she been promoted into, then maybe Cosima will be able to as well.

But Rachel is in her office, and Rachel is approaching her, and then Rachel is far too close for comfort. Delphine, stupidly, takes a step backward into her own desk, feeling the backs of her thighs meet with the slick metal of the front edge. She belatedly remembers the open bottle of whiskey behind her somewhere, thinks about how embarrassing it would be to knock over a half-full bottle simply because Rachel Duncan had startled her.

Two steps in quiet heels, and Rachel has caged her in. Has surrounded her on all sides, has cut off all of her exits. Anger flares in Delphine, twists like a ribbon caught in an air current. She will not succumb to the power play Rachel is lobbying—today, she is not the soft woman with playful curls that Rachel thinks she used to know. She meets Rachel’s eyes, a thin reed of satisfaction shooting through her when she realizes that Rachel is in too-tall, too-sharp stilettos, but Delphine’s boots still lend her nearly three full inches on the clone. They share eye contact that gives Delphine goosebumps: half glare, half question.

“Rachel,” she says it like a command rather than a greeting, as much for herself as for the woman in front of her. A beat passes, and Delphine pushes up onto her toes, gently seating herself on the edge of her desk and turning her head to seek out the glass of bourbon she knows is only inches behind her. It is while she reaches for it that Rachel’s eyes drag down the column of Delphine’s neck, pause on the light pulse of her carotid. Delphine is nervous, and Rachel zeroes in on this like it is a gift that has been handed to her.

Delphine turns back, tumbler in hand, and raises the glass to her lips. She will pretend that this is casual, that she is not afraid of Rachel’s unexpected appearance. She will maintain control even if it means the death of her.

Rachel’s head cocks a fraction as Delphine’s mouth meets cold crystal. And then Rachel smirks, her fingertip reaching out, finding the base of the glass and tipping it _just_ that much more toward Delphine, rushing the liquor toward the French woman’s tongue. Delphine briefly wonders if she will choke—she doesn’t—but she has barely finished swallowing before Rachel kisses her.

She doesn’t know if it’s the whiskey or Rachel’s tongue gently running across her lower lip, tasting her, but Delphine suddenly feels sick, feels dizzy, feels like she is going to collapse off of her desk. And then her mouth opens, her lips touch Rachel’s, and she falls into the kiss like it’s an accident that she no longer wants to apologize for. She has almost forgotten to think about who she is kissing when Rachel pulls back and finds Delphine’s grip still around the glass. Her hand closes around Delphine’s wrist and she pulls the glass, and Delphine’s hand, to her own mouth.

She stares as Rachel sips from the glass, stares as if she has not yet comprehended the reality of what is taking place. Her mind catches up to her body as Rachel’s eyes close at the burn of the liquor, and Delphine consciously stops herself from biting her lip. She looks at Rachel and knows that she has already been caught—the smaller woman is far too pleased with herself. She pulls the crystalline tumbler from Delphine’s hand without letting go of her wrist, and brings Delphine’s fingers to her lips.

Delphine’s lips part involuntarily as Rachel sucks her middle and ring fingers into her mouth, tongue hot and slick and rolling against pads of fingertips in a way that makes Delphine’s breath catch in her throat and her eyes lose focus.

Rachel drags Delphine’s fingers from her mouth slowly, so slowly, and watches Delphine’s face with parted lips and a look so explicit that Delphine visibly shivers. The glass is discarded on the desk, and then Delphine pushes out of her seated position, back onto her feet, back onto higher ground. A hand still slick with Rachel’s saliva wraps around the smaller woman’s forearm, fingertips pressing into skin that Delphine does not recognize the feel of. She is the one who kisses first this time. She is angry: her throat burns with part 103 proof Michter’s, part guilt, part thoughts of Cosima.

When she closes her teeth around Rachel’s lower lip, she bites harder than she intended, and she is not sorry. She draws blood, feels the heat of Rachel’s split lip swelling under her own mouth. _This is not gentle,_ she thinks. _This is not an accident._

And then—

A hand on her throat, fingertips digging into her skin like a threat.

Their lips break apart as Delphine takes a deep breath in, unconsciously licks Rachel’s blood off of her own lips. Their eyes meet, and for the first time, Delphine sees Cosima. Her eyes are too cold and too sharp to be Cosima, but the color is the same, and there is blood on Delphine’s tongue, and her mind cannot silence the part of her that aches to be kissing Cosima instead.

The illusion is shattered as quickly as it comes, because Rachel’s thin fingers are still wrapped around her neck. Sharp nails dig into the soft skin just below Delphine’s ear, a thumb presses too-hard against her jugular.

Still, neither of them speak.

Rachel squeezes, stiffens her grip, forces the taller woman’s chin to the side, bares her neck. Delphine waits for the feel of lips, tongue, but it does not come. Instead, Rachel ghosts her mouth above the skin of Delphine’s neck, her breath even and under control. Delphine can feel tension radiating from the woman in front of her: she wants to reach out and drag her fingers through Rachel’s hair, she wants to bite the sharp curve of Rachel’s clavicle and listen as her breath comes short and desperate. But Rachel is in control, so Delphine stays still, but she does not close her eyes. She does not flinch when Rachel’s hands begin to restrict airflow, she refuses to allow Rachel the satisfaction of winning this game. She can breathe less and less with each passing second, and _God_ she aches to be touched, but she will not beg.

Rachel’s breath hitches, just barely, and Delphine holds her own while she waits for the words to come. Instead, Rachel lets out the lightest of laughs, so quiet that Delphine is not sure if she’s heard it, or if she is hearing the rushing of her own blood. And then her chin is pulled back down, and there is blood on her lips once again.

When Delphine moves her hand from the flat of her desk to Rachel’s hip, she briefly wonders if Rachel will push her away. She does not know the rules of this game, but she does not expect Rachel will allow her to cheat.

She is wrong—Rachel needs this as much as she does, and Delphine is unsure if she is delirious with want or with lack of oxygen or a combination of the two. Rachel steps closer, pushes herself toward Delphine—back into the desk—without ever loosening her grip around the taller woman’s throat.

Delphine wonders if she will have bruises tomorrow. The idea of having these marks of _ownership_ makes her angry all over again. Rachel will never look at her again without seeing her own hand around Delphine’s neck, her fingertips pressing half-crescents into soft skin that begs to be kissed. She is angry, but she aches deliciously at the thought of watching Rachel across a boardroom, knowing that she is imagining the taste of Delphine’s fingers in her mouth.

She bites Rachel’s lip a second time. She is not gentle. She imagines what they must look like to anyone who would glance into the glass-walled office, all anger and bloodstained lips. She knows that it must hurt, her teeth on Rachel’s broken skin, but Rachel’s eyes flutter beneath her lids like hummingbird wings as she fails to swallow a strangled gasp.

They pause, Delphine pulling away but allowing Rachel’s fingers to maintain their grip around her neck. She stares at Rachel, and for the first time realizes that Rachel’s breathing is almost heavier than her own, her eyes nearly as dark, cheeks flushed. She knows that the blood that paints Rachel’s mouth is mirrored on her own lips, and she does not think twice before leaning forward to press them to the column of Rachel’s throat.

Each kiss leaves a mark like it is Delphine’s signature—bloodied pink on Rachel’s neck, thick black on Cosima’s resignation papers.

She drags her teeth along the smooth skin of Rachel’s jaw. She is not gentle. Rachel’s composure is unraveling: Delphine can tell because she is able to breathe again, because Rachel has momentarily forgotten that is she supposed to be in control. Her tongue has found the soft spot where Rachel’s neck meets her collarbone, and a small sound escapes the back of Rachel’s throat, high pitched and out of character. It is a betrayal, a noise that Rachel cannot take back, even as she stiffens and takes a step backward, detaching herself from Delphine.

“This… this is not—“ Rachel begins, hands pressing too firmly as she smooths away nonexistent wrinkles of her skirt. She stops herself, goes quiet when she realizes that she isn’t sure how to end her sentence.

“No?” Delphine smirks. She knows this will anger Rachel, this expression that says _I’ve won, I’ve beat you._ She is right.

Rachel steps back toward her, something fierce in her eyes, and reaches for Delphine a second time. Her hand never connects—instead, Delphine catches her wrist, uses Rachel’s forward momentum to pull her closer, to pull her off-balance. She is leaning back against the desk again, and she all but pulls the smaller woman into her lap.

And then her knee is between Rachel’s, and Rachel cannot catch herself in time, and Rachel is straddling her leg, and—

Delphine drops her wrist, hands finding the hem of Rachel’s skirt instead. It bunches as she slips her hands around the back of slim thighs. She is no longer following Rachel’s lead.

Rachel will not be outplayed.

She pushes forward, lips meeting Delphine’s again, and again, and again. Her hands brace against the desk, steadying herself. She kisses Delphine hard, does not give the taller woman a moment to breathe, much less a moment to think. She tangles her fingers in sleek blonde hair and _pulls,_ her tongue meeting the hollow of Delphine’s throat as Delphine gasps in what Rachel identifies as pain and surprise and something heavier, something that sounds like _“Oh, God.”_

Delphine is drowning: she cannot remember where she is or why she should not be doing this, can only register the goosebumps that chase themselves down her arms as Rachel’s tongue leaves scorch marks on her throat and insistent teeth close around her earlobe. Her left hand slides higher up Rachel’s thigh, and then Rachel’s skirt is nearly around her waist. Delphine’s palm presses between Rachel’s legs, presses against the thin silk of a thong that Rachel has nearly soaked through, and the reality of Rachel’s desperation shocks Delphine’s mind back into clarity.

She feels Rachel’s breath catch, hears the ghost of a moan in the back of the woman’s throat, feels the warm rush of an exhalation on her neck as Rachel forgets and then remembers to breathe again. And then they are kissing again, and Delphine is slipping further and further away from logic and reality because Rachel starts grinding against her hand, against her fingers, and Delphine is struck with the realization that she really only barely knows what she is doing. She adjusts her arm, begins to move her hand in an attempt to match Rachel’s rhythm, but suddenly feels a sharp pain at the back of her neck as Rachel violently jerks Delphine’s head back by her hair a second time.

“Don’t,” she breathes, eyes boring down into Delphine’s, fierce and dark. “Don’t move.” Delphine swears her accent is a bit thicker, a bit less poised.

It is a command, and it is one that Delphine does not consider disobeying even for a moment. She remains still, lifts her head and feels the tension leave the nape of her neck as Rachel uncurls her hand to release a fistful of Delphine’s hair and reaches down, covers Delphine’s hand with her own and rocks against their connected palms. Her eyes stay open, but she won’t meet Delphine’s gaze. Instead she bites at Delphine’s neck and kisses the teeth marks she leaves. It is not soft.

Delphine desperately wants to push aside Rachel’s underwear, because the sick part of her wants to know if Rachel feels like Cosima does, if she makes the same sounds that Cosima does when Delphine’s fingers slide into her, if her muscles will clench around Delphine the same way Cosima’s did.

But Rachel has given her instructions, and she will follow them—for now. She understands this dynamic: she is a tool to be used, a means to an end. She has been a puppet of Dyad, and of Topside, but tonight she is Rachel’s.

Delphine knows when Rachel is close, because her eyes close, and she is no longer quiet. She is grinding into Delphine’s hand, slow, purposeful, and her near-silent gasps begin to turn into something more vocal, a noise that Delphine recognizes, that she knows is involuntary. Her palm presses Delphine’s harder, harder, harder, into the apex of her thighs, and as Rachel’s body betrays her, her free hand finds its way back around Delphine’s neck. Delphine cannot get enough of it. She wonders if Rachel can tell.

“Come,” Delphine demands, and her voice betrays her, lack of oxygen making it far raspier than she expected, and far less commanding.

Rachel’s eyes snap open, and meet Delphine’s for the first time in many minutes. Her hips do not stop moving against their connected hands.

“No,” she replies, sliding her fingernails around to the front of Delphine’s chest, angry red trails following as she drags them across the French woman’s collarbone. Her eyes follow the marks hungrily, she stares at the lines where she could have drawn blood, had she tried to.

Delphine’s hand finds purchase on the back of Rachel’s neck, and she pulls Rachel in for another kiss, meeting her halfway Rachel grinds forward against the flat of Delphine’s palm.

The moment before their lips meet, Delphine pauses. “Do it,” She says, their lips a hairs-breadth apart. Rachel’s eyes open, and Delphine whispers _“come”_ a second time, just before her teeth close around Rachel’s lower lip.

And Rachel does.

They do not kiss while she unravels—instead, Delphine pulls back and watches. Watches as the muscles in Rachel’s throat pull taut, as her eyes press closed, as her lips part, lower lip still red with the blood that Delphine’s teeth drew and purpled where she’s been bitten.

She looks exactly like Cosima when she comes, and Delphine hates how fucking exquisite it is.

Rachel’s eyes open when it is over, and she takes in the woman below her. Delphine’s lip is caught between her teeth, chest heaving, eyes dark. Her hair is mussed, her throat pink with marks that have yet to take form, and Rachel likes to imagine that later, when Delphine gets herself off, she will be looking at those marks in the mirror. At Rachel’s claim to her.

She drops her hand from Delphine’s unceremoniously and takes a step backward, removing herself from her position over Delphine’s thigh. She does not make eye contact as she pulls her skirt back down to a decent length.

There is a moment of heavy silence in which Delphine straightens her shoulders, gains some semblance of control back, and meets Rachel’s eyes. Rachel has just come against Delphine’s fingers, but Delphine is the one who looks as though she is completely undone.

Rachel moves to leave, but then she pauses, half turned.

“I _am_ glad you enjoyed yourself, Dr. Cormier.” And then she leaves, wrinkles in her skirt and pink marks down her chest as the only visual proof that Delphine is not hallucinating.

Delphine knows that she has lost.


End file.
